“Calm yourself, Joseph.” Hallowell said. “I would not send you alone to risk such treatment once again. I will request Capt. Corner of the His Majesty’s Ship Romney to provide us with an armed escort. After that incident with the press gang, I’ll warrant those men are itching to get back some of their own. We will wait until the ship is fully loaded and then, my friend, we shall seize her, complete with all her cargo, and have her towed under the Romney’s guns, least they should try to board the ship at night and sail it away. I will teach Hancock’s ruffians to harass one of my men, by God! I’ll not suffer their insolence one moment longer! Here, have this message delivered to the Romney’s captain. And here are your seizure papers. As of this moment, the Liberty and all her cargo are the property of His Majesty, the King!”
The Liberty lay fully loaded at the dock and awaiting the next tide when the longboats from the Romney pulled up to the wharf. The same officer who had led the press gang was in command and this time, he moved quickly, before the crowd had time to gather. In the company of Ben Hallowell, Thomas Irving, the inspector of imports, Joseph Harrison and his eldest son, Richard, who was a customs clerk, the officer marched his men up on the liberty’s deck and served the ship’s captain with the seizure papers.
“Sir, you are charged with violation of the Acts of Trade and Navigation and henceforth, this ship and
all her cargo are forfeit to His Majesty, the King,” said Hallowell.
“The hell it is.” the captain said.
At a signal from the officer, one of the Romney’s men knocked him to the deck with the butt end of his musket. Several of the crew started forward angrily. but stopped when they found themselves staring down the barrels of muskets loaded with grape shot. “All right, you scurvy, smuggling lot.” the officer said firmly. “Face right about and down the gangplank with you, every man jack of you! Move sharply, now! First man who hesitates, I’ll have his guts for garters! Move!”
Sullenly, the Liberty’s crew marched down the gangplank. The word had already been spread along the docks and an angry crowd was quickly forming The men from the Romney wasted no time in running lines out to the longboats for the Liberty to be towed out into the harbor, close beneath the Romney’s guns.
“Well done, sir.” said Hallowell to the ship’s officer. “My compliments to Capt. Corner.”
“I will convey them, sir,” the officer said. “And now, with your permission, we’d best get on about our business. That crowd yonder on the dock has an ugly look about it. I would not linger overlong if I were you.”
“No need to worry.” Hallowell said smugly. “They may stand there and jeer till dawn for all the good it does them, damn their eyes for their impudence! Come, gentlemen. we’ve done our duty.”
No sooner had they stepped off the gangplank than the first stone came sailing out from the crowd. The Romney’s men made haste to pull the gangplank in and the rowers hurriedly bent to their task. Slowly, ponderously, the sloop began to move as the men in the longboats strained at their oars to tow the ship out into the harbor. The men still aboard the Liberty took shelter as they were pelted with a rain of rocks and bricks from the angry crowd. Ben Hallowell watched smugly as the Liberty was slowly towed away from the dock.
“Take that. John bloody Hancock!” he said. “Ben,” said Irving, pulling at his sleeve. They turned and found their way blocked by the crowd. The crew of the Liberty were among them. Some of the men were holding clubs. Hallowell looked around nervously, but time was nowhere for them to go.
“Let us pass.” said Hallowell.
Nobody moved.
Hallowell swallowed nervously.
“Let us pass. I said!”
“Get the bloody bastard!” someone shouted.
The crowd surged forward. Irving tried to draw his sword, but it was snatched from him and broken. He went down beneath a flurry of swinging fists. A club snuck Hallowell’s head and he crumpled to the ground, blood streaming from his forehead.
“Run. Dick!” Harrison shouted to his son.
In an instant, the mob was upon them and Harrison cried out as a club glanced off his shoulder, he lashed out wildly and felt his fist connect with someone’s face. He felt hands clutching at his coat and another club struck him in the hack. Someone punched him in the face and blood spurted from his nose. He heard his son cry out behind him. They had knocked him down and several men were kicking him, then they grabbed him by his hair and dragged him screaming through the street. As more blows rained down upon him, something in Harrison broke and with a keening sound, like some wild animal, he thrashed and shoved his way through the press of men as hands and clubs struck out at him. He stumbled, but regained his balance, and then, miraculously, he was in the clear and running down the street as fast as his legs could carry him.
He heard them running in pursuit and blind panic surged through him as he bolted down a narrow alleyway, tripped, fell, scrambled to his feet again and kept on running, not even knowing where he was running to, just fleeing in abject terror. He didn’t stop until he was blocks away, completely out of breath. He collapsed against a pile of wooden crates stacked in an alley and cowered there, trembling, his breath rasping in his throat, tears streaming from his eyes and mingling with the blood. He drew his legs up to his chest, put his head down in his arms, and sat there, weeping in the dark.
Back at the docks, the mob hauled Ben Hallowell’s pleasure skiff out of the water, tied ropes to it, and dragged it through the streets to the Common, where it was set on fire. One group broke off to go running across the open grass to Hallowell’s house, where they pelted the windows with rocks and bricks. Another group stoned Harrison’s windows white his wife cowered inside, hysterical with fear. Eventually, the mob broke up, to proceed in small groups to the taverns on the waterfront, where they toasted one another’s courage and patriotic ardor before stumbling to their homes.
Boston had no street Lights yet, so at night, the streets were as dark as country roads. Zeke Chilton, Johnny Long, Dick Tillotsen, and Edward Crenshaw were staggering and weaving down Fish Street, their arms around one another’s shoulders and their voices raised in drunken song when they were hailed by the watchman.
“Who goes there?”
“Freedom lovin’ Sonsh’a Librty, God damn yer eyes!” roared Chilton. He was the one whose club had felled Ben Hallowell, as he had proudly boasted no fewer than two dozen times that night to anyone who’d listen.
“You’re drunk.” the watchman said.
Chilton heaved a bottle at him and it shattered on the street. Mumbling curses to himself, the watchman beat a hasty retreat.
“That’ll show’im,” Chilton slurred, “God damn ’is eyes!”
“Liberty an’ prop’ity!” shouted Johnny Long.
“God damn their eyes!” said Chilton, staggering against him.